


and from the waves he rises

by SearchingforSerendipity



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF Kink Meme, Death and Rebirth : a vaguely tragic story by Theon Greyjoy, Drowned Priests, Drowning is for Greenlanders, Gen, Ironmen Magic, Suicide, The Drowned Priests have some magic going on, What is Dead May Never Die, but rises again harder and stronger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 10:05:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4475270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SearchingforSerendipity/pseuds/SearchingforSerendipity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last time Theon Greyjoy closes his eyes, Winterfell's weirwood is smiling mockingly at him from the surface. </p><p>The fist time Theon Greyjoy opens his eyes is not the first time at all.</p><p><em>what is dead may never day,<em></em></em> after all, <em> but rises again, harder and stronger.<em></em></em></p>
            </blockquote>





	and from the waves he rises

**Author's Note:**

> So, greetings to everyone reading this ! I'm actually not sure if this is what the prompt asked, but I saw it and couldn't resist. It always seemed a bit unfair that the Drowned Priests didn't have some water powers to balance Melisandre and Thoros of Myr, and the idea of an Ironborn version of the Kiss of Life was too good to ignore. I probably didn't do justice to the potential this has, but it was fun, so here it is. 
> 
> The kinkmeme prompt is in here :http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/13612.html?thread=8105004#t8105004
> 
> I own nothing, though hopefully I know a little more than Jon Snow.

_What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger._

The fist thing Theon notices, apart from the agony of breathing again and coughing up bloodied water, is the taste. There have been times when he had thought he'd never see saltwater again, times when he'd forgotten how it tasted like. But now it floods his lungs only to be coughed, viciously cleaning any lingering taste of the verdant Winterfell pools.

His head is pounding and every inch of skin is itching, crawling with foreign life and Theon has never hurt more, but the priest finally lifts him gasping from the sea and he makes himself open his eyes. Everything is a shapeless blur and he thinks vaguely that if this is how newborn feel like no wonder they bawl all the time, but then his head is being submerged again and again and Theon gives himself to it, to the water making it's way from lungs to veins,to the waves rolling over him, to the words of the priest, impossibly clear over the sea and the pain.

 

_What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger ._

 

Some say that fire is the true cleaning force, that it scours weakness and foulness and leaves only purity behind. That is not true, not for the Drowned Priests of the Iron Islands and not for the ironmen with saltwater in their veins and dark depths in their hearts. It's in their blood, this thrumming tide that makes them of the sea, a legacy from when flesh was foam and blood was saltwater.

Theon remembers this, remembers every lesson the priests gave him as a child, staying up late with his sister to name the different faces of the moon and hear the grown men talk about the tales of the war between sky and sea, when the stormgods were born and the moon enthralled the tide. He'd remembered it even in Winterfell, studying the night sky and choosing the best alignment, when the moon is clearest and highest. Then he'd risen from his bed, drank a whole bottle of Lord Stark's best wine and drowned himself under the weirwood's disapproving face.

It had been easy. Not the dying, no, that was agonizing. Not the planning either, the unspoken goodbyes tinged with doubt, without knowing if it would work, if he even wanted it to work. The foating, though, naked as the day he was born, weightless between the surface and the depths. It had been good, better than sex, almost.

Then he'd turned on his belly and dived down to die.

 

_What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger._

 

 He'd wondered before, what death would be like. Most people did, at some point or another, he suspected. Even if the northmen didn't have much in terms of heaven and hells.

No doubt the Starks all think him a craven now, to choose a watery death over a hostage's life. He wonders if he's being mourned, if Lady Stark regrets her coldness or Robb misses his company. Robb had been the worst part in all this, the worst tie to cut, Robb so full of life and destiny, who could never understand how he'd so often think about the pools even when he knew the time wasn't right.

Perhaps he was craven, for not saying farewell, at least not properly. He'd acted as he usually did, with little difference to account for but longer glances, wayward touches, and something had cracked inside when no one noticed. Not even Robb had seen the way he'd done everything for the last time. Somehow it hadn't made it any easier.

 

_What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger._

 

God, but it _burned_. Nobody ever said anything about how being born hurt as much as dying. The water filled him,encased him until there was no space for thinking, for moving, for doing anything else than breathe the water, in and out , in and out.

The priest's chanting was becoming louder, the blue-green-grey hues around him clearer , and Theon should have been surprised that his sight could now withstand the sea but he he seemed beyond it, beyond anything other than the boom of the waves and the whoosh of his heartbeat, a single song prettier and more terrible than any Sansa ever loved.

 

_What is dead may never die --_

 

He wasn't being held anymore. Theon was floating, not underwater but part of the water, fingertips grazing thin sand grains, so very different the the harsh brown northern soil. He was floating , one with the waves, and so he stayed, for many minutes and more, no voice but that of the sea rousing him. This time, he knew without having to be told, the words were his to say.

Surely, steadily, as if he hadn't just been drowned, as if he hadn't been dead for a month and a sennight, Theon Greyjoy placed a naked foot into the cold sand, then another. His knees held. The wind whipped and the waves buffeted and Theon Greyjoy did not flinch, did not bend with it.

Leaning down, he cupped his hand in the water and drank deeply, greedily. There were people shouting in front of him, Greyjoys and Harlows and Drowned Priests here to watch the Rising of their heir, but he gave them no notice. He spoke for the sea and the sea alone.

 

"But rises again, harder and stronger."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos would be great, all options and thoughts are welcome.


End file.
